


Absent Without Official Leave

by PAPERSK1N



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fake AH Crew, GTA!AU, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Lowkey Mavin, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of Suicide Attempts, Murder, No Character Death, Ray is an asshole but what else is new, Raywood, Relationship(s), Runaway Ray, Unhealthy Relationships, fem!Jack, implied mavin, loads of angst but i promise a happy ending, no explicit, short fic, teeny bit of gore in the first chapter, turnwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PAPERSK1N/pseuds/PAPERSK1N
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray's favourite option is running away. Ryan is simultaneously the best and worst boyfriend of the year and Meg is equal parts his saving grace and his fatal flaw. Michael is impossibly choleric, Jack tries her best, Gavin is beyond broken and Geoff is too damn explosive to even attempt to contain. </p><p>Alternatively Titled: How Ray Broke The Fake AH Crew and How Ryan Had To Pick Up The Pieces.</p><p>(Happy Ending)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

For Ryan, the hardest part of most days was getting out of bed.

He was an avid insomniac- a result of three parts guilt and two parts mild psychosis making him restless through most of the night, eyes bloodshot and throat hoarse by the time it became socially acceptable to be ‘awake’. Ray was usually the opposite; a so-called _tortured_ _soul_ blessed with the ability to sleep like a log. He’d rise sometime between ten and eleven, well rested and relaxed whilst Ryan suffered on silently beside him.

Ryan hated him for it, of course- bitter jealously curling through his veins every time Ray would roll over with a sleepy smile on his face and mutter _good morning_. It was never a fucking good morning for Ryan. It was an extension of the constant chain his days ran in. _Time_ didn’t mean anything, not really. Night and day are irrelevant when you’re an insomniac. Night and day shift and change into two separate times of _When You Are Awake_ and _When You Are Asleep._

On this particular morning, Ryan woke up feeling rested. It was a completely foreign feeling- he hadn’t had (even by his low _low_ standards) a good night’s sleep in a good month or two. He was thankful, however, small miracles and all that. The clock in his eye line ticked over and struck nine am before his very eyes, sun already risen to morning stance. He felt oddly holy- blessed to not have to watch with disdainful anticipation as the sun crept up over the horizon.

“Are you awake?” he mumbled to Ray. When met with no answer, Ryan rolled over to face his sleeping companion, who would surely at least be stirring by this time in the morning.

Ray wasn’t stirring. He wasn’t even asleep.

Ray wasn’t there at all.

Ryan frowned. Ray waking up before him was something unheard of throughout their entire time together. Insomniac or not, Ryan prided himself on being the one to get up first. He could creep out of bed, shower off the shame from whatever he’d done the night before in peace, drink a coffee or two or five and force some food down his throat just so he could stay alive. By the time Ray surfaced, he could be the bright, open, smiling _norma_ l boyfriend, ready to greet the love of his chaotic life with breakfast and an empty loving kiss.

He couldn’t do that- because Ray was fucking gone. Not just out of bed sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee or crying or playing Xbox because he couldn’t sleep for whatever reason gone, no. He had vanished completely without trace. There wasn’t a single sign of his presence anywhere in the apartment-no half empty glass of orange juice on the kitchen counter (Ray could never finish any drink bar strawberry milk), no plate littered with toast crumbs that drove Ryan insane. The TV was off (Ray had an awful habit of leaving it on despite Ryan’s constant pleas of him to turn it off) and the lights throughout the apartment where much the same.

Their home (was it really a home?) felt empty.

Ryan wandered, half asleep back into the bedroom. He wasn’t even dressed, having stripped off all his clothes when he slipped into bed beside a snoring Ray the previous night. They’d fought a little during the evening, he’d gone out to blow off steam in all the wrong ways, and returned home guilty. He’d stripped off his clothes and showered off his dirty skin before flopping into bed aching and naked, arms desperately wanting to reach out and pull Ray into a tight embrace.

He’d restrained himself, as he often did. The bedroom looked much the same as it had last night, dark and silent with little to no personal artefacts bar Ray obnoxious Amiibo collection and a few of Ryan’s night-time reading selections. Back in the days gone by, they’d stay up and read together (Ryan would read aloud and Ray would listen) but now the books had been long condemned to a short pile on the floor, dusty and unloved.

Feeling strangely exposed despite being alone in his own home, Ryan threw open the closet doors in search of clothes to cover himself with. The closet was not as it had looked the previous day. Usually, it was one half Ryan’s neatly hung jackets and jeans with folded up t-shirts on the bottom, one half Ray’s rainbow of graphic t-shirts and endless supply of cargo shorts and hoodies. More than a half really, more like two thirds. Ryan had always pretended he didn’t mind Ray’s ridiculous shirt collection and was more than happy to fold his own precious articles up and lay them on the bottom of the closet. This, of course, had always been a lie.

The closet was different this morning because Ray’s side was stripped and barren, the fifth of a thousand warning signs blaring off in Ryan’s belly. No Ray, no TV, no mug, no crumbs, no clothes. Not a single shirt had been left dangling, not a coat-hanger in sight. Ever the entity of calmness, Ryan pulled out a pair of jeans and t-shirt and grabbed some balled up underwear out of his drawer (he’d checked Ray’s, which was empty (even the gag box of banana flavoured condoms he kept in there as a joke were gone) and quickly dressed himself, grabbing his phone from where he’d left it (on the kitchen counter for all to see) and then taken his burner phone from the box officially labelled “MLP Memorabilia” (unofficially labelled: Ray’s shame) that had been banished to the top of the fridge long ago.

Ryan slipped the burner phone in his back pocket and used his actual phone to dial Ray’s number.

“ _I’m sorry, but the number you have dialled is no longer in service. Please try again later.”_

* * *

 

His contacts were approximately zero help at all, none of them having seen even a glimpse of a purple hoodie throughout the streets of sunny Southern California let alone having any contact with Ray. Ryan cursed himself for insisting they deal with business so separately. Ryan had his contacts and Ray had his. Never the twain shall meet and all that- it wasn’t a _Mr and Mrs Smith_ kind of relationship they had. Their relationship was their relationship but work was work and they liked to have a clear line between the two.

If anyone out of his contacts could’ve had any idea of Ray’s whereabouts, it would’ve been Josh Flanagan. That was how Ryan knew he was in trouble- because everyone in the city knew, you only went to Josh Flanagan when you were in some _real_ shit.

The guy was a wizard of the tech world, holed up in an RV by the beach with a thousand illegal pieces of hacking equipment. He had all the CCTV cameras, he had the flight information directly from the airport and he had intel on every single POI that existed in the region. Josh Flanagan was the man you went to when you were looking for a miracle.

Ryan was starting to think he needed one when he showed up at Josh’s RV, letting himself in with the key code he knew by heart (Josh had insisted he couldn’t write it down _anywhere_ just in case it ‘fell into the wrong hands’- the paranoid asshole.) and settling down on the uncomfortable built-in couch. It was like Breaking Bad, with significantly less meth and a lot less charisma.

“Seriously Josh- I’m looking for anything.” He pleaded. “It’s not like Ray to disappear like this without a trace.”

“Really?” Josh asked, slurping up the greasy Chinese takeout Ryan had brought in for him as a peace offering. He was stuffing his face messily with chopsticks balanced elegantly in one hand as he typed furiously with the other. “No offense, but I thought it was _exactly_ like Ray to pull shit like this. Isn’t running off sort of… you know… his thing?”

Ryan scoffed. “Yes. But he’s sloppy- it’s odd that he wouldn’t have been spotted by _someone_ yet. I called around all my contacts before calling you, I’ve got eyes everywhere that matters, I-”

“-found him.” Josh pointed at the screen to his left. Ryan rushed over, bending over by Josh’s desk to peer at the grainy footage. “You were right. He’s not very incognito.”

“What the fuck?” Ryan muttered to himself, sliding the keyboard over so he could have control of the image. The video feed was live, outside a Starbucks down on Colorado Avenue sipping from a paper cup. Ryan felt his brow furrow into a frown. “This doesn’t make sense.” He said.

“What?” Josh asked. Ryan pointed to Ray on the screen, resting the cup against his lips.

“Ray hates coffee.”

“Maybe it’s fucking hot chocolate or something.” Josh shrugged. Ryan shook his head, typing rapidly on the screen to enhance and zoom in on the image.

“Nope, look.” He pointed at the cardboard sleeve of the cup, where scribbled markings indicated exactly what was in the drink. “Half-caf, full-foam latte. Ray hates coffee.”

“I don’t know dude. But look- he’s got a big ass bag with him.” Josh took the keyboard back over, empty carton of Chinese food cast aside on his desk as his greasy fingers flew across the keys, zooming back out to the normal ratio of the picture. “See. Looks like he’s going away somewhere.”

“Running away.” Ryan said. Josh nodded.

“Seems like it.”

The two fell into silence, eyes fixated on the image on the screen. Ray was alone, that was clear, sipping from his coffee and clutching his bag tightly. Then, slowly- almost as if he could feel them watching, he turned his head up to face the security camera and gave the most insincere, shit-eating grin.

Whatever it was Ray was trying to play- whether it was with Ryan’s emotions or to satisfy his own urges, Ryan didn’t like it. Ray’s serial killer grin into the camera had unsettled him deeply and slowly, the situation was all starting to add up. Ray had complained about Southern California more or less by the first month they’d been there- but that was normal. Ray enjoyed complaining. Ray enjoyed taking everything Ryan had given (or given up for) him and tossing it back in his face.

In the recent months, the eighteen-month anniversary of living in the state of sunstroke was rapidly approaching and Ray’s itchy feet had been acting up again. Every other conversation was _Ryan- why don’t we just leave. Get out, head somewhere else- head West? North, even!_ And every time Ryan would ignore him, or try and talk him out of it.

He explained this to Josh with a tired tone to his voice, like a helpless writer relaying their fleshed out idea for a manuscript in front of the seventeenth publisher to turn them down.

 “So why didn’t you just give in to him? Move somewhere else?” Josh asked. Ryan avoided his eyes, and stared directly at the floor.

“I just… I didn’t want to.” He muttered. “It’s… I’m not going into it. I just like it here.”

“I feel that.” Josh shrugged. “That’s cool. Compromise in relationships and all that-”

“-except Ray’s never been very good at compromise.” Bitter was an understatement to the tone in Ryan’s voice. Josh quirked an eyebrow, but didn’t press for details. Josh Flanagan didn’t ask questions, and maybe that was why it was so easy to confide in him.

“Still,” Josh sighed, cutting the video feed of Ray. “Maybe you should go back and check your apartment. You said he was sloppy, right? He had to leave something behind.”

* * *

 

Searching the house again, this time felt easier. There was less of the sudden blind panic of your lover of almost two years suddenly having disappeared without a trace. Now, he knew Ray was alive and still being an asshole. He hadn’t been kidnapped by a gang or an enemy or just your average crazy home invader.

He was ‘safe’, in the loosest fucking sense of the term.

This time, upon scouring every inch of the apartment with laser focus, Ryan had discovered exactly what Ray had wanted him to find, what Ray had probably never guessed he’d have missed. Ryan was always hungry in the mornings, and the fridge was his go-to. Ryan, unknown to Ray, had eaten a big dinner the night before.

Dangling from the shelf was a heat shaped post-it note, red scrawl that undeniably belonged to the messy _Ray Narvaez Jr_ bleeding on the page, that called out to him. It begged for him to take it, read it, treasure it. That would be the stupid note he’d cling to in the hours of missing Ray and waiting for him to come home, if this went how Ray probably wanted it to go.

Ray had never quite understood that he couldn’t always have what he wanted.

Ryan tugged the note off the shelf of the fridge and read it quickly, familiar frown settling on his face. He read the words, a single question printed on the paper in shaky ballpoint pen, read them a second time and then a third. Turned it over. Nothing. One question sat stark naked before him, and honestly, the answer just seemed way too easy.

_Remember when we did it in that restaurant bathroom?_

The restaurant in question- _Mr Ling’s Take-Out Emporium_ \- hadn’t ever been run by _Mr Ling_ or anyone of the _Ling_ name. It had been owned by wannabe hipsters that were as white as whole milk and oppression- he and Ray enjoyed going there in their early California days to laugh and mock and eat awfully dry dumplings and stiff noodles. _Mr Ling’s_ had the worst rating of all the take-outs in SoCal, so it was no surprise that when Ryan pulled up outside the establishment was closed for good, an empty shell of a restaurant with soaped-up windows and a barely flickering sign. _Mr Ling’s Take-Out Emporium_ was as washed out and dead as their relationship was starting to feel.

He and Ray had had sex in their bathroom on their third visit, partially due to insatiable sexual tension that followed them everywhere they went (in _those_ days, they were still fucking like rabbits every night Ray could take it) and partially due to the distaste and lack of respect they held for _Mr Ling’s_ and its employees. It’d been marked up there on his top five sexual experiences with Ray, just above the back alley by the old LS carwash and just below their first time. A solid fourth place.

He broke his way into _Mr Ling’s_ by slipping down the dirty side alley that still carried the smell of cooking oil despite the place being shut down for the last ten months. A broken window was easy enough to find, and with a trash can for support, Ryan hopped over and into the building with ease. It was the kind of petty shit he did for a living when he was Ray’s age. Hardly much of a challenge.

The lights didn’t work anymore, but the bright SoCal sun still streamed through the soaped up windows, beams shooting around the room in a hazy pattern. The room was stripped, all that was left of _Mr Ling_ and his legacy being the deep red carpet, the cheaply manufactured vaguely Asian scrolls and the giant painted dragon on the back wall.

Not that he could admire it, with the body nailed on top of it.

The body, Ryan quickly inferred hadn’t been there long, skin still slightly teaming with life, blood still red and moist around the nails that pierced through the man’s hands. He was clothed except for his shirt, where a gaping hole was cut through his chest. His heart, having being plucked from its rightful place in his torso had been nailed through his wrist against the wall, soggy and lifeless but still startlingly red and vibrant.

Another heart shaped post it notes was stuck to the body, flapping over the empty gap in the man’s chest. Ryan didn’t even reach for it, crouching to peer at the man’s face which was flopped over, chin resting on his neck. His eyes were closed, hair dishevelled- but Ryan could still recognise him. He wasn’t anyone particularly special, just the kid that worked in the Walmart they went to. He always smiled at Ryan and made inconsequential conversation over his purchases whilst Ray would stew quietly behind him with a stormy expression on his face and defensive posture. Ray hated the kid, because Ryan liked him. Ryan liked that Ray hated that fact, so he played up to the kid even more when they went shopping together.

And now the kid had died because of what was either a harmful crush or a slight interest. Ray was throwing a tantrum of psycho toddler proportions, and as he reached up to snatch the heart-shaped post it off his body, Ryan was starting to find it all really fucking irritating.

_You’ve always had an issue with wearing your heart on your sleeve._

When it came to crime, Ray had always been lazy. He sniped from a distance, he didn’t get up close unless he had to. He didn’t construct dramatic art pieces out of corpses to spite his lover. That was more Ryan’s forte. Ray hadn’t been careful (when was Ray ever careful with anything?) and Ryan was left sweeping away the evidence, making sure that not a single trace of either one of them could be found being there. He doused the corpse in the tub of fryer oil he’d found out in the kitchen, lit a match and crept out the back window where he came from.

Of course, he had half a mind to leave Ray’s fucking hair and fingerprints all over the god-damn scene and wait for a call to come from jail asking Ryan to bail him out for a few hundred grand and get him a lawyer. However, he disgruntledly took care of the crime scene out of spite and love and another mix of swirling emotion. He fucking loved Ray, no matter how inconvenient it felt.

The note was the last thing to go, afterwards when he was sat in his car flicking the lighter in his hand and dangling the thin pink paper above it precariously. However, something told him that Ray wouldn’t lead him all the way to a murder scene at _Mr Ling’s_ (now an act of untraceable arson at _Mr Ling’s_ ) to spite him for his naiveties. Ryan turned the note over in his hands, and as the heat from the lighter caught it, the words slowly began to appear on the paper. So Ray had known he’d done a botch job of the crime scene then? He’d known Ryan’s only choice would be to burn it down, and he knew that the heat would eventually catch the paper.

What a fucking psychopath.

_Remember when I ate FroYo for the first time? It was fucking gross and I almost puked in a trashcan. Where did you take me to make me feel better?_

The FroYo incident was one of Ryan’s lesser fond memories- and of course, one of Ray’s absolute favourites. They’d tried FroYo together because it became a big deal and neither of them had ever eaten it before. Their kind of lifestyle didn’t leave much room for frozen desserts, and Ryan wasn’t bothered either way but Ray had been insistent. He’d found the FroYo somewhat pleasant, but nothing special. Ray on the other hand had complained about the FroYo for hours until it wasn’t cute anymore. Ryan had taken him to the movie theatre to shut him up, more than anything else.

It irked him, the memory and the note and the scavenger hunt bullshit. Ray liked to run and he liked to create problems- but he was a lazy criminal. Ray didn’t like to play games like Ryan did. He didn’t have the focus, nor the dedication to pull it off- so what was it? What had pushed him over the edge and forced him to pack his shit and leave in the middle of the night with a trail of breadcrumbs behind him?

Sure, they’d been arguing for a while but for them that was normal. In fact, when hadn’t they been arguing? It seemed to Ryan like every day was becoming a new problem, something else he’d done wrong or something else he just simply _hadn’t_ done would tick Ray off. He put the glasses in the wrong cupboard, he turned the Xbox off when Ray hadn’t saved, he didn’t make the bed, he used up all the hot water.

It felt like he hadn’t done much _right_ in a long fucking time- so he honestly understood if Ray was using that as his excuse to give in to the urge to run. If that was his escape then so be it- but what was his angle with the whole wild goose chase nonsense? This wasn’t fucking _Se7en_ and he wasn’t a detective, nor was he someone who actually cared where this was all going.

The latter part was a lie, but Ryan swore it to be true as he raced through the streets uncaringly to the _Laemmle’s Claremont_. He’d taken Ray there after the FroYo debacle because one of Ray’s favourite activities was making fun of hipsters. They’d seen some shitty indie film with too much smouldering glances and acoustic guitar and were almost kicked out for laughing too hard. Ray had given him a hand-job in the back of the theatre. It was an average trip. Six out of ten. (the hand-job wasn’t that great)

Ryan wasn’t sure if the whole NPC quest he’s been set was to buy Ray some time or just to drive him insane- but both were working. As he climbed out of his car his burner phone rang, a familiar tinkle shooting guilt up his spine. He rejected the call without looking at the caller ID (only _one_ person had the number anyway) and rocked up to the theatre.

Something arty and foreign was showing, so the cinema wasn’t particularly rammed. On one of the faded indie posters displayed on the front of the building was one of Ray’s heart shaped notes. He didn’t even take the time to venture into the cinema (that was probably what Ray wanted him to do) he just snatched the paper, ignoring the odd looks he received from the hipsters and the tourists and stormed back out to his car without reading it.

Once he was in the safety of his car, he turned the heart over and read Ray’s familiar handwriting out loud to himself.

_You’re too good at these, hey? Maybe I should stop making it so easy. One word. home._

* * *

 

Sitting around for an hour trying to decipher Ray’s cryptic riddles was the kind of thing he didn’t need to waste his time doing, so he called up Josh Flanagan and asked for any updates. His riddle was answered within minutes when Josh relayed the fact that Ray had finally been seen again, queuing up at check-in for a flight to Los Santos.

Ryan sighed, and slammed his he against the headrest of his car. “That mother-fucker.” He muttered.

“What’s in Los Santos?” Josh asked. Ryan’s eyes darkened, and he rubbed his hands frustrated over his jaw.

“Home.” He replied, crumpling the note in his hand and ending the call. Ray was fleeing- but he wasn’t running away, for once. He was running towards- back towards everything they’d left behind in the first place. Ray was running towards Los Santos- and if Ryan didn’t follow him… he’d likely never see the fucking asshole ever again.

That was a very real future he wasn’t ready to face.

Ryan turned the key in the ignition to his car and pulled the tiny burner phone- the phone of shame, as he occasionally called it, and redialled the only number that ever called.

“Ryan!”

Meg answered cheerfully, as she always did. Her voice was high pitched but not piercingly so. Endearingly positive, quite the comparison from Ray’s deep gravelly mumble.

“Hey, Meg.”

“What’s wrong?”

Meg being able to tell that he wasn’t okay purely by the tone of his voice alone was almost enough for Ryan to actually crash his car, swerving awkwardly down the road as he bit his lip. “Can I come over?” there was no point in denying that he was very much not okay- not to her anyway. “We need to talk.”


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Meg, A.K.A- Ryan's not-so-dirty little secret.
> 
> Ryan flies out to Los Santos and bumps into some old faces. Perhaps things aren't quite the same as they were when he left.

Meg, for lack of a better term was the part of Ryan’s life that he despised the most. Meg was the shame he showered off himself when he walked back into the apartment in the middle of the night. Meg texted and called the phone hidden in the box where Ray’s previous life lived. Meg was exactly what she sounded like.

Meg was Ryan’s dirty little secret.

He’d had a secret girlfriend name Meg Turney for the best part of a year, conveniently and equally inconveniently meeting her for the first time right around the time Ray was transitioning from loveable asshole to straight up irritating bastard. He’d been running from the cops (as he often was) and decided to go incognito by slipping into a GameStop and pretending to shop. It’d worked a treat, as he expected it to. He’d laid low for half an hour or so, met Meg in the Xbox section and left the store with her number and a copy of BioShock Infinite.

His relationship with Meg didn’t change the fact that Ryan loved Ray with everything he had. And that meant _everything_ \- he’d sacrificed so much purely for them to be together. He was sitting in his car speeding through Southern California because that’s where Ray had wanted to run to the first time. Then, all of a sudden the roles had been reversed, Ryan was the one pulling him back in to the beach and the sunset whilst Ray was itching to be… well, anywhere else, really. Home, apparently.

But Ryan had his reasons for wanting Ray to stay in SoCal. The main reason had bright purple hair and a giant gleaming white plastic smile and really nice tits. Ray had none of these things- but that never stopped him from being remarkable in other ways. Meg and Ray were nothing if not opposites, and that was the main reason that Ryan so quickly found that he needed to have both of them at once.

For Ryan, Ray was the oddly charming dark cloud in his mind, covering every thought he had and everything he touched. Ray loved having this affect over him, and found new ways to exploit it every day. Ryan let him. Meg Turney seemed to be the sunshine peeking through the immense cloud of _Ray_ that brought the light back to his face. Meg was pleasantly optimistic in all the ways Ray was endearingly pessimistic. Among many other things, Ryan loved Ray’s bitterness and flippancy and seemingly constant state of nonchalance- but Meg was like the fucking relief from the never ending abyss of sarcastic comments and eye rolls.

Ryan also liked Meg because she liked him. Not the real him, of course- not the way that Ray knew him and loved him despite. Meg knew Ryan not as _The Mad King_ or _The Vagabond_ or even _Ryan the Murder-Guy._ Meg knew Ryan Haywood- an IT consultant who loved her behind the back of his bitch wife who bled his bank accounts dry and had regular sex with the pool boy but they stayed together because of their family connections. Meg thought that she was the touch of happiness to his otherwise miserable life. She wasn’t entirely incorrect.

And then, without her knowing- Ryan was the most toxic person in Meg’s somewhat uneventful existence.

Ryan Haywood (all personas) was a terrible fucking person and he knew it, indulging in Meg because he was too coward to admit that truth of how stressful a life on the run is and was too chicken to even think about how much his worry grew for Ray’s ever changing mental state as the days passed. Meg was his ability to forget. Meg was the safety net he crashed into every time he fell away from Ray’s cold embrace. Meg was the reason he ended up pushing for Ray to stay in SoCal for so long. He knew it was wrong, but she didn’t know it was wrong. If she was blind, Ryan could pretend to be blind too- at least for the brief hours he could spend with her.

 _How ironic_ , he thought as he pulled up outside Meg’s apartment building. He’d put so much work into forcing the love of his life to stay in one place so he could continue an affair with a girl six years younger than him (yet still, two years older than Ray and a lifetime more mature) and still- the son of a bitch had managed to slip from his (albeit slowly loosening) grasp.

Always in the back of his mind was the distant idea of letting Ray go, letting him run and leave. Staying in California, with Meg forever. It dawned on him when he buzzed Meg’s apartment and her voice came through the intercom (simpering and concerned) that the mere idea would always be an unreachable dream. He could never leave Ray. If he couldn’t have Ray- he couldn’t have Meg, because it only worked with her when he could have them both.

Sitting on Meg’s couch, her thigh pressed against his and her hand awkwardly hovering above his arm worriedly as she cradled a mug of green tea felt like the long awaited ending to a four-hour movie.

“You’re leaving me, aren’t you?” Meg asked, before he had the chance to open his mouth. Ryan watched as she set the untouched tea down on the coffee table.

“I’m sorry, Meg,” he turned to face her, taking her delicate hands between his own. “I can’t give too many details but… someone very close to me has gone missing. I think I know where they are but… I have to go and find them- personally.”

“If they’re missing, can’t you just call the police?” she asked. Ryan shook his head- it wasn’t like he could tell Meg the truth without tearing down every foundation supporting their whole relationship. Meg often said that she hated liars. Little did she know, Ryan was the biggest liar of them all.

“I’m so sorry,” he kissed her knuckle. Her hands felt wrong in his, which was surprising because oddly enough a significant amount of their time spent together had involved casual hand holding. Ray rarely held his hand- he hated most PDA and liked his personal space even when they were alone. Ryan accepted it, but that didn’t mean he liked it. When he ran to Meg, it was because he craved the intimacy she could give him. She would touch his face and stroke his arms and sit beside him and cuddle him. Ray only wanted to cuddle if fucking was involved or if he was feeling particularly shitty.

Meg’s hands were so petite and soft and long and her nails were brightly coloured and manicured within an inch of their trivial lives. Despite how long they’d been cradling the tea, when met with Ryan’s cool skin they felt chilled. Like a porcelain doll’s, fragile and unnaturally perfect and chilled to the touch. Ryan had this feeling when he touched Meg often, a wild contrast to the patchwork of scars and soft skinny-fat physique of Ray’s body ripped straight from the pages of _Playboy_ magazine.

“Tell me what’s going on, Ryan-” Meg reached up to hug him, and Ryan let himself rest back against the sofa as she climbed into his lap, arms looped around the back of his neck. “You just… you look so tired recently. Like you just can’t take things anymore. Is it… you know- her?”

His ‘wife’ was her. Meg never said her name, because he told her he didn’t like hearing it. He couldn’t even remember the made up name he’d given Meg as substance to his bitch wife lie, but she obviously did. She never said it outright, but it was always there- right on the tip of her pretty pink tongue.

“I cant.” He sighed, resting his hands at her waist. “I’m sorry Meg, but I can’t. I’ve got to go away for a while… I don’t know when I’ll be back- if I’ll even be back at all.”

“I can wait-”

“-No, that’s not fair.” He shook his head. “I’ve made you do enough sneaking around to last a lifetime. I won’t do that to you anymore.”

Watching her eyes swell with tears almost made him want to stay. Almost.

“How long till you leave?” Meg asked him. Ryan shrugged- the only truth in their whole interaction. He honestly didn’t know when the next flight he could catch to Los Santos was going to be, he had Josh working on it as they spoke. He had a little time- maybe enough.

She saw it in his eyes before he could answer. Meg was good like that- being able to understand what he meant with just a look. He could always do the same with her, she was the definition of an open book. Meg didn’t have many incriminating secrets to hide, she wasn’t used to using her face to conceal every thought and feeling she had. Meg wore her emotions in her eyes, cognac cheapened with ice reading aloud a list of every musing she could think up.

He knew she wanted him to kiss her by the way she shifted, drawing their bodies somehow even closer together and her eyes fell hooded. He leant forwards, tilting his chin gently and pressed their lips together, hands rubbing under her shirt and up her back gently.

“Do we-”

“-We have time.” He nodded, checking his watch over her shoulder through the guise of another kiss. “We have all the time in the world, baby.” He lied.

 

-

 

 

Having sex with Meg and having sex with Ray were hard to compare. It wasn’t like one was little league and the other was major league baseball- the two were completely different sports entirely. Having sex with Meg was intimate, but quick. In the back of his mind, he always wondered what Ray was doing, if he was awake, if he was wondering when he’d be home. He’d finish it up and it’d all be other with quickly enough that he could get out get home and shower away the shame. Sex with Meg was soft- because although she liked to flirt and talk about porn an excessive amount, she wasn’t all that adventurous. She was sturdy and reliable. She was sexy in all the ways Ray wasn’t sexy (mainly because she had the body of a _woman_ \- but also in other ways) Meg liked to dress up. Meg liked lingerie and furry handcuffs (not that Ryan would ever let her use them having spent enough time in cuffs over the course of his life for _very_ different reasons) and books on the karma sutra to laugh at. After they had sex, Meg liked to make jokes and hold his hand and kiss him gently. Meg didn’t like it when he left marks on her, so he didn’t do it- no matter how tempting her spray tanned skin felt beneath his lips.

Sex with Ray was like a lottery. It all depended on whatever kind of day Ray was having. If he’d secured a deal- particularly a big one, he was excited and ready for whatever. He’d ride Ryan with a big fat smile on his face and it’d all be over with in time to discuss the money behind the business. Ryan would double-check his math out mentally, and if it added up- maybe they’d go again.

If Ray was high, sex was lazy and sleepy and he’d have the most appealing soft smile gracing his face. He’d wrap his fingers in Ryan’s long hair and kiss him. Ray never kissed him as much as when he was high. He’d wrap his fingers in Ryan’s long silky hair and guide his face to wherever he most wanted it, softly laughing at the feel of dark hickeys being sucked into his tanned skin.

If Ray was in a bad mood- sex was unpredictably predictable. He never really needed words to explain what he wanted, Ryan could suss him out in a look. If Ray felt like shit- he could flicker between controlling and submissive. Either he’d fight to pin Ryan down and inevitably loose or he’d be the most pliant wreck, laid out on their bed with the most biddable body language but the most deeply troubled look on his face. Many times Ryan had stopped midway to check he was actually okay. Ray would swear he was fine- he just wanted Ryan to do it ( _hard and fast and hard and fast_ ) sometimes he would go along with it, most times he’d have to stop again because Ray would start crying or shaking or both or worse. Those nights, Ray would let himself be held. Usually he was more against it, try to brush off their ‘intimate’ moments with a grin or a laugh, lay side by side with just their upper arms touching. Ray would talk shit, Ryan would listen. They’d both fall asleep to the sound of the other breathing. Distantly intimate, he’d describe it as if anyone cared enough to ask.

He left Meg half asleep in her own bed, and it hurt because he loved her. He loved Ray- probably more than he ever thought he could love a person, but there was still a giant part of him that loved Meg too. But apparently, Ray would always win in the fight for his heart, because he was sitting there on a last minute plane travelling cross-state just to find the asshole.

He hated Ray.

(He loved him.)

 

 

-

 

 

Los Santos was a city that never changed. The landmarks never shifted, the same rag-tag gangs of wannabe gangsters and hoodlums hung around the same cul-de-sac corners. The graffiti was never lifted- city council well past the efforts of bothering to clean it. The painted scrawl would always re-appear, like an ever lifting mold spreading its poison across the brick and concrete buildings.

Ryan winced when he saw a familiar green logo, sprayed over with small time gang’s tags and faded against a lone standing brick wall. It was right there, bleeding at him in spurts of lime, but still he managed to ignore it. It was difficult- but he was a man on a mission. As he drove through the streets heading to the building where Michael’s penthouse could be found his eyes scanned the sidewalks for a flash of purple.

Michael hadn’t changed much in the eighteen months since they had last seen each other. Curly brown hair, choleric personality, angry scowl on his face as Ryan picked his way through the front door lock. He was leaning against the counter with a beer in his hand watching the door, waiting as if he hadn’t heard Ryan knock three times. He greeted Ryan in a way a scornful Michael only could.

“What in the ever-loving _fuck_ are you doing here?”

Ray was missing Ray was missing Ray was running away, running to- Ryan wasn’t sure. The explanation he gave Michael was long winded and airy, he longed for his missing love _yadda yadda yadda_ boo-fucking- _hoo_. Michael’s expression never switched from uncaring and slightly ticked off, and by the time Ryan was done he was half way through his second beer.

“Okay- so he fucked off and left you. What’d you want me to do about it?”

Ryan was left to some degree speechless at that. Michael’s shut down and lack of worry at the situation both shocked and worried him. Michael and Ray had been best friends on their worst days- familial like on their best. Michael had been the last person Ray spoke to before he upped and left and dragged Ryan away with him. Michael had been his final goodbye- so it had all made perfect clear sense to him that Michael would be the one waiting for him on the other side.

Ray couldn’t’ve organised this whole grand escape alone. Could he?

“I just thought… you guys were the closest and all…” Ryan trailed off, unsure where his own sentence was going. Michael scoffed, clearly understanding what he was trying to say without needing to hear the words.

“Times change.” He said. “After you guys left- the crew disbanded. It’s over- if Ray’s in Los Santos… I don’t know what he’s here for because there’s _nothing_ _left_.”

The last words bled from his mouth in an angry spit, teeth gritted as his lips closed back into a scowl. The room fell silent, and guilt swirled in Ryan’s stomach. Not the same kind of guilt he felt when he laid next to Ray in bed after a night of sleeping with Meg. Not the kind of guilt he felt when he mowed down an innocent civilian who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was a new kind of guilt.

The other kinds of guilt hurt- sure. This guilt… it _ached._

“So you don’t speak to the others… at all?”

“I get a heads up if anyone’s planning an airstrike, that’s about it. Jack likes to keep tabs on us all but I’ve learned how to avoid her calls.”

Ryan raised his eyebrows. Jack was like the pentagon on a good day, the illuminati on a bad day. If their crew was a microcosm, she was the running fabric holding their universe together. She would never be so careless to let them all slip from her grasp so easily.

“What about Geoff?” Ryan asked. Michael shrugged, offering no explanation other than a dismissive wave of his hand followed by the clink of his empty beer bottle against the back of the counter as he swung it gently in his fist. Ryan drew breath, and let out a long sigh. If Michael was going to give him any information- he was going to have to get him where it hurt.

The _heart_.

“What about Gavin?”

The beer bottle crashed to the floor, shattering into a thousand brown stained glass pieces. Michael’s fist curled in on itself and he turned, his back to Ryan and his gaze cast out to the floor to ceiling windows, Los Santos’ city skyline almost at his grasp.

“I wouldn’t know,” Michael spoke through gritted teeth. “We don’t really talk anymore.”

“I’m sorry.”

Michael bent himself over the counter, hanging his head limply. “I’ve got a number for Jack, if you want it,” he mumbled. “If anyone’s seen Ray, she’ll know.”

“But Michael-”

“-She’ll know.” Michael repeated, straightening himself out. “That’s all I can give you.”

 

 

-

 

 

Jack picked up the phone on the seventh ring, right before Ryan’s finger had the chance to push into the _end call_ button on his cell phone. Her voice was the same as ever, deep in tone and tired sounding. However, it lacked its fondness, it’s flowery note around the edges. Opinion had turned to fact, summer to winter. Jack to… _Jack_ \- a new and improved upgrade.

“Ray’s here? Are you sure?” She asked him. Ryan bit at the hangnail on his thumb absentmindedly.

“Yeah.” He said, coming to a gradual stop at a red light. A brief burst of nostalgia washed over him as he thought about the times he’d spent in his Zentoro, speeding through every damn traffic signal up the street. Rules didn’t matter when you were in the Fake AH Crew. You were essentially untouchable.

“He’s definitely here Jack- I tailed him.”

“I haven’t heard anything,” Ryan could hear clicking over the phone, like fingers tapping quickly at a keyboard. “I’ll let you know if anything comes up. In the meantime- I’ll send you Gavin’s address, maybe Ray called him up, because you’re right- there’s no way the kid would come here with no backup.”

“You think Gavin will be able to help me?” Ryan asked, following the traffic through the neatly laid streets of Los Santos. Jack paused for a long time on the phone as if she was collecting her thoughts, conjuring up whatever lie she was going to spoon feed him to make him feel better.

“Maybe.” She eventually said. “Gav’s the best I can do.”

“No sign of Geoff then?” at that, Ryan knew he’d struck a nerve. Jack and Geoff’s friendship was an epic love-story that spanned decades. Nothing could ever stop the two, or so he thought. Maybe his and Ray’s impact on the groups dynamics had been bigger than they’d initially thought.

“I try and keep tabs on him but…” Jack trailed off, followed by a deep sigh. “You know Geoff, Ryan. He’s too good at being quiet. Maybe- and that’s a heavy maybe, Gavin will have some way to reach him. No promises though.”

Jack hung up the phone before he had a chance to say _I’m sorry._

 

 

-

 

 

Gavin’s new residency sat in the highest point of the shiniest building across the LS skyline- a penthouse worthy of the richest two percent of the planet. The building was guarded with doormen in pristine uniforms (Ryan could easily talk his away around those) and a concierge that wouldn’t accept lower than four hundred dollars to bribe his way up to the penthouse suite.

When the doors opened and Ryan begrudgingly thanked the concierge his steps echoed across the laminate floor, straight into Gavin’s home.

It had to be a home- as lived-in as it looked to be. It was empty, yet felt populous. The apartment was an interior designer’s nightmare; a once high tech, modded out over-chic’d show-home had been completely and utterly desecrated. Crystal flutes and sparkling glasses littered every surface in small clusters- some full, some empty and a few cracked around the edges. Streamers were strung across the floor and some of the walls, questionable marks coated the ceilings and various articles of clothing were strewn across the stained white carpet.

Gavin was leant in the alcove of his floor-to-ceiling window, one hand tightly wrapped around a martini and the other in the pocket of his torn tuxedo as he glanced out over the world below him, stupidly overpriced mirrored aviators masking the emotion from his face as his lips curled around a lit cigarette.

Ryan cleared his throat and Gavin flailed in a very Gavin-like manner, sending the drink flying across the room. Ryan smiled awkwardly at him, unsure if he’d be met with a hostile presentation like Michael or a strained greeting like Jack.

“Bloody hell.” Gavin muttered, cigarette sticking to his bottom lip as his mouth fell agape. He reached up to remove his glasses, tossing them to the floor before tucking his cigarette neatly between his fingers. Smoke drifted from his mouth as he spoke.

“Ryan…”

“Nice place you got here,” Ryan mumbled, kicking a wine glass by his foot and sending it gently rolling away from him in a neat circle that inevitably ended at the back of his heel. Gavin’s mouth was still hung open in shock as he took a step forwards, ash from his cigarette falling onto the carpet.

Gavin was nothing if not uncaring, even when they’d known each other. Gavin didn’t show compassion or sympathy. He was an asshole through and through- more so from hanging out with Geoff for so long rather than his humble upbringing in the dreary town of Oxfordshire, England. His apartment was a perfect replica of his mindset- the graveyard of an opulent affair that’d likely been filled with other uncaring souls, drifting in and out of the Gatsby-like scenario that fate had presented to them.

“I turned it into a shithole.” Gavin said, bluntly. Ryan nodded, looking around the ruined suite again.

“You did.” He agreed. A small smile grew across Gavin’s face and he shook his head, laughing bitterly before pressing the cigarette to his lip once again and asked, “No offence Ryan, but what the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

“Funnily enough,” Ryan smirked. “Michael gave me the same response.”

Gavin’s small smile slowly dropped back into a thin line, and his hand shook a little as he pulled the cigarette back from his mouth. Slowly, he lowered himself down to the floor, sitting on the small step that took the pitted living room up to the floor level of the rest of the apartment.

“What do you want, Ryan?” he asked quietly. “Really. Why are you here?”

“It’s Ray.” Ryan sighed. “He’s… run off-”

“-again.” Gavin scoffed, lowering his head between his knees and shaking it amusedly. “No surprises there then.”

“Nope.” Ryan shook his head. He had quickly found himself upon arriving in Los Santos airport being well past the point of defending Ray’s actions- especially not to the only other four people in the world who actually _knew_ him.

“I followed him here, wondering why he came. So far, neither Michael nor Jack have heard anything from him. They led me here.”

Gavin sighed, and stubbed his cigarette out on the glossy wood flooring in a fashion that screamed _blasé._ Ryan had never known Gavin to be anything close to blasé in his life.

Gavin picked up an opened beer bottle that had been abandoned in reaching distance and took a brief sip. “You need to understand, Ryan.” He said, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Things… they got bad after you left. The crew… we just weren’t the same, you know? Like a body… with two major fucking organs missing.”

Ryan was silent, which Gavin took as a sign to carry on. “We decomposed,” he continued. “fell apart- you know? Nobody talks to anybody anymore, not really. Sometimes, I sit up here and stare out that fucking giant window at the city… sort of, wondering if it could’ve been different. If there was some way I could’ve…” he paused. “…it doesn’t matter.” He waved his hand. “I don’t know why Ray would come back here again. Nothing’s changed since the last time I spoke to him.”

Ryan stepped forwards. “Wait, you’ve spoken to him? Recently?”

Gavin looked up at him, hazel eyes sparkling as they caught the stream of light from the chandelier that hung above his head. “I heard from him… a few months ago.” He shrugged. “He was saying stuff about… maybe all of us meeting up again, stuff like that. I told him it wasn’t possible. Didn’t hear anything from him after that.”

Ryan withheld the groan in his gut at the new information he’d been handed. So maybe Ray had been planning this for a while- but if Gavin had told him that the crew was no longer _a crew_ , why would he return? What was he looking for?

“Thank you, Gavin. Seriously- you’ve probably been the most helpful today.”

“Haven’t heard that in a while.” Gavin scoffed. Ryan frowned, and Gavin’s eye flicked up to read his expression for a moment. “The whole dad tone.” He explained. “Missed it, I guess.”

Ryan bit his lip nervously. Gavin collected his beer and fished another cigarette from his back pocket, standing up and walking over to light it on a nearby candle before wandering back over to his original spot, facing the giant window. He’d never seen the Brit so completely detached and despondent. Gavin, even though he had always been an asshole, was a chipper upbeat character in Ryan’s life. The Brit had a bounce in his youthful step that matched the jounce of his mop of shaggy hair and a stupid smug grin that you always wanted to wipe off with a fist.

But those days were now apparently long gone.

“You could try Geoff.” Gavin called over his shoulder. “He pretends he doesn’t care, but he keeps a close eye on everyone who comes in and out of the city. He’s not as powerful as he used to be but… he’s got connections.”

“You’ve got his number?”

“Only person in the world with his personal cell.” It made Ryan uneasy, how Gavin made something that could’ve been so easily gloated over, shouted triumphantly from the rooftops seem so sombre and unremarkable. Before, Gavin could make the most tedious tale sound exhilarating. “You can have it,” smoke leaked from between The Brit’s lips and floated above to the high ceiling. “But only if I can name my price.”

Ryan shifted on his feet awkwardly. Something about the husky tone of Gavin’s voice made him agitated, like a bug crawling up his skin and burrowing into his ear. “Alright…” he nodded. “Name your price.”

Judging by the sheer size of the room, it was unlikely that money was what Gavin was after. Gavin was far too interesting to ever care about something as replaceable as money. Gavin had always enjoyed _things_. Gavin liked diamonds and cars and precious metals.

But most of all, Gavin liked secrets.

The Brit turned around to face Ryan, taking a single step towards him. He made Ryan do the real work, stalking the length of the room to approach him, until barely a few centimetres separated the two. Gavin was lanky, but he was still shorter than Ryan, head confidently tilted as he looked up into his eyes. Smoke floated between the two, and Gavin leant in, lips brushing against his ear as he whispered his price.

“A kiss. Just one.”

Ryan frowned. Gavin was the king of the unexpected, but a kiss wasn’t even in the far recesses of his mind when it came to the plethora of things Gavin could have desired. What would someone as fascinating as Gavin ever want with something as mindleds and easy as a kiss?

Gavin leant away from him and the smallest smile spread his dry lips. Ryan leant in, pressing their foreheads together and puckered his lips, brushing them across Gavin’s chapped ones. An underwhelming feeling of _nothing_ caressed him with the scratch of Gavin’s unkept facial hair and after a few seconds, the Brit pulled away.

“Wow.” Gavin sighed, pulling his cigarettes back to his lips as he stepped away from Ryan. His face was as devoid of emotion as it was when Ryan had walked in. “How remarkably unremarkable.” His dull eyes sparkled again, for a single few seconds before darkening again.

“You asked for it.” Ryan’s tongue dampened his lips on instinct, trying to detect any taste of _Gavin_ it could find. “Maybe I’m just not a very good kisser.”

Gavin scoffed at that, eyes cast to the ceiling in a half-assed roll. “I guess it’s like that whole ‘never meet your heroes’ thing.” He shrugged. “How you should never get what you want because it’ll never be as good as what you thought it would be, all that shit. I guess it’s just getting harder and harder to feel things as time passes, you know?”

Ryan nodded, but it was nothing if not a lie. He didn’t know what it felt like to be as dead and hollow as Gavin felt against his skin. What could’ve almost been a tear swelled in the corners of Gavin’s vacant eyes.

“You miss them.” Ryan said.

 “Yeah.” Gavin nodded, sniffing once as if to hold back even the inkling of emotion. “I throw all these shitty parties and open the invite to the whole city… just waiting for maybe even one of them to come.” He looked around at the trashed room and gave a crumpled smile as he kicked a beer can with the tip of his shoe. “But… they never do.”

“Gav-”

“I think…” Gavin ignored him as Ryan made his way back towards so they were standing directly parallel once again. Gavin’s eyes shone with tears. “I think out of everyone- I miss Michael the absolute most.”

Ryan reached up to Gavin’s cheek and held it softly, wiping away the tear that over spilled its boundary and ran down his cheek, catching it long before it could drip to his chin. “I’m so sorry, Gavin.” He said quietly, leaning in to kiss his once friend on the cheek. Gavin sniffed again, fumbling in his pocket for a screwed up piece of paper that he handed out to Ryan, before stepping away, back into the castellated tower of his nonchalance.

“Geoff’s number. Take it.” He thrusted the paper into Ryan’s hand, before turning with another sniff back to his window. “Just go, Ryan. Leave and don’t come back. I hope you find whatever it is you and Ray are looking for here.”


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The finale

 

 

There was a plethora of adjectives Ryan could use to describe the man who used to be his boss. Geoff ‘Lazer’ Ramsey (or Fink, if you _really_ knew him) was enough of a convoluted individual to warrant the need for an alphabetised list of modifiers next to his name: Alcoholic, Belligerent, Cowardly, Destructive, Extraordinary, Fantastic… Ryan could go on and on.

Geoff’s number wasn’t much to go on as even when they were all still a group he rarely answered the fucking phone, so Ryan had to fax it over (who even had a fax anymore?) to Josh (Josh Flanagan did, apparently) who traced its last out-call and gave him a location. Ryan half expected Geoff’s apartment to be as opulent and palatial as Gavin’s show-home but was unpleasantly surprised to discover that the once Great Ruler of the land named Los Santos was holed up in a one-story, one-bedroom, one-bathroom bungalow on the outskirts of the city. Sure, the door had what could’ve been military grade locks studded across it, but they were deemed pretty useless considering there was a broken window leading into the bathroom.

Geoff didn’t even seem all that surprised to see him. He was slouched on the sofa, eyes glazed over as they bore into the television unfocusedly, a small glass of something brown and strong-smelling in his left hand. His facial hair had grown uncontrollably since their last encounter, once pristinely groomed and curled black moustache left stranded in a sea of wiry brown hair. He had a beard rivalling the one Jack used to grow out, back when she was somebody else.

“Well.” Geoff grunted, voice hoarse and husky like it hadn’t been used for a long time. “Aren’t you a sight for fucking sore eyes.”

Ryan knew his eyes were pretty blue (both Ray _and_ Meg had adoringly commented on it many a time) but they were nothing in comparison to Geoff’s. Geoff’s eyes were like the sky on a snowy day, the colour of white water rapids fusing together at the crescent of a waterfall- they were the colour of a Norwegian glacier: pale and watery like the milky skin on a cartoon ghost.

And waxing lyrical couldn’t even do them justice. To say Geoff’s eyes were blue were like saying the sun was yellow. Accurate, of course- but not quite illustrative enough to capture the burning.

“I’m here for information.”

Geoff scoffed. “Sorry to disappoint- but I ain’t got none of that.” His eyes drifted back to the television, bright coloured images flashing and reflecting on his pale dry face. Ryan rolled his eyes.

“Gavin sent me. Said you could help me.”

“I don’t give a shit what Gavin said.” Geoff leant forwards, slamming his glass down on the table loudly. Ryan, like an amateur- actually flinched at the sound.

“Please Geoff,” he sighed. “It’s… it’s about Ray.”

Geoff’s entire body tensed until slowly, he sunk backwards into the couch. His eyes rolled over and settled back on Ryan’s.

“Don’t even say that fucking name to me.”

“Geoff, you’ve gotta help me-”

“I don’t gotta do _shit_.” Geoff yelled. “He chose to leave. I don’t care what shit he got himself into on the way out.”

“Geoff,” Ryan sighed. “You don’t mean that. And you know it.”

“You don’t fucking know what I mean.” He muttered. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you left too.”

Ryan chose to ignore that, for the brief time. The guilt he had felt about leaving- the same guilt that had faded and been taken over by other kinds of guilt over the past year or so had been rapidly rising up again every second longer he spent in Los Santos. If anyone could make him feel worse, it’d be the man he’d originally hurt.

“He’s back in LS- I trailed him here. He’s run away again- left me a bunch of weird messages and notes and… I just want to find him, alright?”

“And what?” Geoff shrugged. “What the fuck do you want me to do about it Ryan? I don’t fucking care, alright?”

“Geoff-”

“I don’t fucking care!” Geoff yelled suddenly, kicking the coffee table out of frustration so his drink flew to the floor and smashed against the ground, brown liquid spreading around the table leg and creeping under the couch. Ryan watched the glass in favour of watching Geoff- he’d seen his boss be angry before and the expression was engraved in his memory forever, red flushed skin and eyes greyed over, mirroring the sky before a storm. He didn’t need to see it again.

“You love him.” Ryan said, fists clenched by his fist. “Geoff- I know you love and care about him. I just want to know if he’s safe, if you could talk to your contacts, ask around or-”

“No!” Geoff jumped up from his seat, storming off across the tiny room and kicking the empty armchair with the tip of his shoe. “The kid should never have run away from his home in the first place.” He roared. “I fucking dragged that piece of shit off the streets and then had the fucking decency to practically raise him my-fucking-self. Out of all the lads- he was the one I looked out for the most. I loved Michael and Gavin like they were my God-damn own…” he shook his head, rubbing his hands through his dark unruly hair, frustrated. “…but _Ray,_ he was the one I really took care of. And all for what? For him to throw it back in my fucking face and take off without a single warning?” he turned, marching over to Ryan who had stood up mid-way through the outburst, and prodded him firmly in the chest. “And _you_ then fucking left _with_ _him_.”

“What did you want me to do Geoff?!” Ryan yelled back, booming echo of anger rivalling Geoff’s. “I fucking loved him!”

“Loved?” Geoff’s voice quietened, eyebrow quirking. “You _loved_ him?” he asked. “Past tense?”

“No… I-” Ryan shook his head, flustered. “I- present tense.” He said, quieter. “I still love him. I do, I-”

“’Course you do.” Geoff scoffed. “Seriously, keep telling yourself that if it helps you fucking sleep at night.”

It didn’t help him sleep at night. The longer and longer he repeated the mantra in his head of _I still love Ray_ the more it felt like a lie. The feeling was only comparable to the way it felt to repeat a word over and over again until it stopped sounding like a real word anymore. Ryan laid back on an uncomfortable motel mattress with his eyes wide open until they went red and dry and his vision had spots growing in it.

_I love Ray; present tense. Don’t I?_

Once he had calmed down, Geoff promised to keep an eye and an ear out with some of his contacts for a skinny Hispanic kid in a purple hoodie with checkerboard vans. He couldn’t promise anything- nobody seemed to be able to anymore- but he could try. He was pissed at Ray for leaving, but he’d always try. Because he loved the kid.

Loves the kid.

It was all starting to sound the same, really.

“Maybe… once I find Ray and- fix everything, we could get the crew back together again. Hang out or grab dinner or something?” had been the last thing he asked Geoff, standing on his ex-boss’ door step. Geoff hadn’t said anything, he’d only laughed out loud impertinently and promptly closed the door right back in Ryan’s face.

Maybe he hadn’t changed that much.

Ryan’s phone vibrated and he lurched up, grabbing it to see if anyone was contacting him with information. However, he sighed- guilt curling in his gut again when Meg’s name flashed on the screen (he’d upgraded her to his _real_ phone following his sudden absence- _that’d_ been a difficult and rushed conversation to have as he was dashing through the airport to catch his flight)

 

 

_From: Meg_

_Just checking in to make sure you’re okay. I miss you. Talk to me when/if you can. x x x_

 

 

Ryan couldn’t quite bring himself to reply.

 

-

 

 

For the next few days, Ryan was following the coldest trail possible. He knew Ray liked to disappear and could do it well, but usually- Ryan would always be the one to find him. Back when the Fake AH Crew were still together, Ray would run away for days or weeks at a time following an argument or a messy heist. Geoff would tear his hair out and Jack would try and trace him and Michael and Gavin would race each other through the streets looking for a flash of black-and-white against the concrete.

Ryan would sit back and leave them to it for a few days, and then eventually when they’d drag their sorry asses back to the penthouse and beg him to go out and look, Ryan would bring Ray back the next day with a smile on his face and some food in his belly.

Ryan knew all Ray’s hiding places. He’d been to the arcade, the arcade basement, Ray’s first apartment, Ray’s dad’s old apartment, The Library, Geoff’s old safe-house, Michael and Ray’s treehouse, Ryan’s rented murder-basement, every Hotel-Motel-Holiday Inn in the God-Damn city. The kid had disappeared off the face of the earth.

 _Ghost Ray?_ Jack had texted him, a spray-painted bleeding red image of a rose on the side of a building with Ray’s _Tuxedo Mask_ tag tiny in the corner. Ryan had gritted his teeth and sprinted to the bank that moment (as if Ray would ever be stupid enough to hang around the scene of a crime). When Ryan pulled up outside the bank, panting and sweating, the firemen were already there, blasting the image with their industrial hoses. Ryan watched, still, as the red paint ran like blood down the wall and into the gutter.

“How are you?” Meg asked him, voice sweet as cherry-pie as Ryan unlocked the door to his privately owned warehouse he had used in the city for years. “I haven’t heard from you.”

“I’m sorry.” Ryan sighed, kicking the door shut behind him as he reached for the light. The warehouse flickered twice before illuminating, boxes of old equipment revealed to be stacked in the shadows, faint bloodstains gleaming on the floor. “I’ve been busy.” He said, making his way up the shaky metal steps to the manager’s booth where his old desk sat. “I miss you.” He added, as an afterthought.

He could hear Meg’s smile down the phone. He could picture the upward quirk of her pink lips against her tanned cheeks. Ryan felt sick.

“I miss you too.” She simpered. “I want you to come back home.”

The word home stung, and Ryan tensed slightly as he sat down in the old desk chair. It’d been one of the few gifts Ray had ever bought him, dating back to before they were even dating. Ray had tailed him one night back when he was still new and they all were suspicious that he would murder them and ended up finding Ryan hanging out in the manager’s booth of his warehouse writing in his journal.

He hadn’t said anything to the others, but the next time Ryan showed up in the warehouse an expensive looking leather chair with a rose tag hanging from it, looking more out of place than The Vagabond in a crew.

Ryan had lost his journal a while ago after a particularly messy argument when he found Ray trying to read it. The two had scrapped over it briefly until eventually, Ray accidentally tossed the book into the fire and the two had stood wordlessly as it went up and the words Ryan had spent the last three years fabricating slowly went up in flames.

 

_“I’m sorry, Rye. I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t mean to-”_

_“Sh.” Ryan shook his head. “Just don’t. don’t say anything at all.”_

_“But-”_

_“I forgive you. That’s all that matters.”_

 

Nights like those made Ryan remember why he still even cared. Ray was infuriating and annoying and spiteful. He was belligerent and defensive and unsympathetic. He had tossed three years of Ryan’s heart and soul into a burning fire yet Ryan had still forgiven him.

Because Ray was crazy- but Ryan was crazier.

“I can’t come home Meg. I’m sorry.” He said, hanging up the phone before she could reply and make him change his mind. He had unfinished business to take care of, and the less distraction on his mission- the better.

 

-

 

 

Ryan shook as he woke from his nap to his phone vibrating on his lap. Eyes bleary, he scrambled to grab it. He didn’t remember falling asleep- he didn’t even remember much of finishing his conversation with Meg, but those worries escaped him as Michael’s name flashed on his screen.

“I’ve found him.”

Ryan bolted up from the chair, scrambling to pull his jacket on and sprint down the stairs. “Where?” he asked. “Michael, where the fuck is he-”

“What would you do if I told you I was looking at him right now?”

Ryan frowned, climbing into his car. “He’s in your apartment?” he asked as the engine began to roar. Michael sighed over the phone, and Ryan’s hands tensed worriedly around the steering wheel.

“Nope.” Michael eventually replied. “I’m watching him through my telescope. He’s on the top of the Maze Bank Building. If I were you, I’d hurry over there pretty quick, because he looks like he’s about to jump.”

 

-

 

It almost felt as if he was back in his Zentoro, back two years ago as he sped through the Los Santos streets on the way to the Maze Bank Building. It was a common venue for their crew shenanigans, and if they’d been good recently, Jack would haul out the Cargo-bob and fly them up to the Helipad for dangerous and occasionally drunken mishaps and capers under the stars where they were high enough (occasionally in both senses of the word) to feel invincible.

Ray was stood with the tips of his sneakers over the edge of the grating his arms outstretched like the wings of a bird about to take flight. Ryan followed his gaze down into the streaming street below. A glint of light briefly shone in his eyes, and he looked down to Michael’s building, imagining his friend watching the scene unfold like a dramatic soap opera from the comfort of his own home.

“Don’t.” he said, before his brain could manifest anything else.

Ray turned around, for once looking surprised to see him. It was an odd feeling because in all their years together, he’d never been able to sneak up on Ray before.

“Why are you here?” Ray asked. His face was pale and skin dry, dark hair hidden under a snug beanie and fists hidden in the sleeves of his hoodie (black, not purple.) Ryan sighed.

“Don’t do this, Ray.”

“Why not?” Ray sniffed, tears flooding his eyes as he watched Ryan watch him with his hands tucked into his pockets and a pained expression on his face. “Why wouldn’t you fucking want rid of me?”

“Because,” Ryan shrugged. “I love you.”

Ray turned back to stare at Los Santos, and Ryan watched him hesitate as the wind made him teeter slightly over the edge. Eventually, Ray relented, and lowered himself to sit on the edge of the railing and dangle his legs carelessly over the city below.

Ryan followed him after a tense few seconds of silence, sitting down beside him.

“What do you really think you’re going to achieve by doing this?”

Ray shrugged childishly. “I’m a terrible human being. Thought that was pretty clear to everyone.” He quipped. Ryan eyed the way his knuckled whitened as they gripped the metal caging they were sat on.

“Killing yourself won’t change that.” He replied. “You’ll still be an asshole, dead or alive.”

Ray leant forwards, claw-like grip keeping him shackled to the roof. He hung his body forwards and sighed deeply. Ryan only watched him, next to him but not really _beside_ him. No space between them, but not really _touching_ at all.

“Why’d you do this?” Ryan asked. “All the notes, running away- running up here to fucking off yourself. If you wanted to leave me, why didn’t you just walk out and say something?”

Ray laughed bitterly. “I didn’t want to leave you, Ryan.” He shook his head. “I fucking love you, and you love me- that’s the problem.”

Ryan frowned as Ray sat up again, turning to face him. His cool exterior had melted, with his cheeks stained red from the rush of the cold wind up so high and his eyes bleary and bloodshot from unshed tears. “How is that a problem?” Ryan asked.

“You love me too much!” Ray cried uncharacteristically as Ryan leant against him slightly. Using most of his might he shoved Ryan away from him and kicked himself away until there was a foot or so between them. His fingers released the railings and he cradled his knees to his chest, burying his face between them. “That’s the fucking problem, Ryan. You love me too much!”

Ryan’s heart broke as he watched Ray sob, every attempt to comfort him leading to Ray drawing further and further into himself. Ryan’s heart broke as he watched Ray cry, and he realised that it was almost entirely his fault.

“I ruined _everything_.” Ray cried. “I didn’t tell you this, but six months ago I tried to get back in contact with the guys, and then Gavin told me that everything had went to shit after we left. And… I just felt so _fucking_ bad that _I_ had ruined it all because I couldn’t stand still. I’m a complete asshole- and I destroyed all my fucking friends lives.”

“Ray-”

“No!” he shouted. “You can’t just fucking fix this Ryan- you can’t just stand there and forgive me like you have a thousand times before because this time I _genuinely_ fucked up. It was _my_ fault and I dragged you down with me. I wanted to come back here to fix things, but I knew that if I asked you to leave and go to LS with me, you’d go in a fucking heart beat.” His hands shook slightly as he attempted to control his own panting breath and carry on speaking without bursting into uncontrollable tears.

“I led you on a wild goose chase.” He eventually said once his voice was steady. He wiped the tears off his face roughly with the sleeve of the black hoodie Ryan had never seen him wear before. “I left all those stupid notes, I killed the Walmart kid, I left him for you in Mr Lings and reminded you of that stupid day at the pier where I ticked you off but you still took care of me- I wanted you to fucking hate me.”

“But why?” Ryan asked, feeling his own chest begin to tighten at the thought of _his_ Ray going to so much trouble to make Ryan hate him- as if that would ever be possible. He so desperately wanted to die and he was so sure that Ryan would try his hardest to stop it. Clearly, they knew each other far too well.

“I wanted you to stay in San Fran Ryan. I wanted you to hate me and stay with your girlfriend and maybe even have a good life.”

Ryan’s body froze at the word _girlfriend_ , and like the spark of a match by the string of dynamite the entire fortress of secrets and guilt and lies came tumbling down around him until nothing was left but Meg and Ray, standing beside each other. Two pairs of brown eyes, one light and playful and one dark and solemn glaring into each other. His boyfriend and his girlfriend. The two strands of his life that should never have intertwined.

“What?” Ray scoffed. “You think I didn’t know?”

“Ray-”

“I’m not stupid.”

“-I am _so_ fuckign sorry, oh my _god_ -”

“It’s fine.” Ray sighed and shook his head. “She is exactly the person you deserve. I saw you guys together when I tailed you to her place one night and yeah- it fucking _hurt_ , obviously. But I knew that I had treated you so badly that I fucking deserved it. She’s beautiful and kind and fucking _normal_ \- I’m none of those things and that’s why you love her.”

“That’s not true!” Ryan lied. “I don’t…” he trailed off, the untrue words dying on his tongue and making his saliva taste sour.

“Don’t what?” Ray’s eyes shone as the sunset caught them, and Ryan thought of Meg in all her innocent vibrancy. “You don’t love her? Don’t lie to me Ryan.”

Ryan swallowed thickly. “I…I-” he clenched his fists. Ray looked at him, and his face split into a grin, despite the tears that over spilled their seams and tracked down his face. “I love her.” Ryan admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I ever stopped loving you too.”

“I know.” Ray nodded. “I came back here so you could stop loving me too and love her completely. I didn’t think you’d put as much effort into tailing me as you did. I wanted you to hate me like I know you fucking should.”

“So what if I should?” Ryan asked. “Maybe I should hate you, Ray- maybe I really fucking should hate you but I _can’t_.” He slammed his face into his hands. “I can’t because I love you, and I hate that I do. I left it all- I left Meg, I left San Fran and everything else that I loved about that town to follow you here because I fucking love you.”

For the first time in a long time, Ray looked at Ryan with wide eyes as if he couldn’t understand yet genuinely believed the words he was saying. Ryan reached out as Ray scooted slightly closer, and intertwined their fingers.

“I’d follow you to the end of the earth, Ray- not because I have to, because I want to. I couldn’t stop loving you if I tried.”

“Then you’re an idiot.” Ray pulled their hands apart and turned to face the busting city once again. Ryan sighed, and tugged Ray’s hand back with enough force that they had to look at each other.

“Maybe I am.” He held Ray’s hands up to his lips. “But it doesn’t matter- I don’t care if I’m an idiot if that means that I’m _yours_. When you feel like this… you have to tell me Ray.” He begged. “You _can’t_ let things get this bad. We’re going to fix things. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, we’ll make things right with us and with the crew.” Gently, Ray squeezed his hand back. “I _promise_ you.” Ryan swore.

Ray looked at Ryan and Ryan looked at Ray. The blue sky faded into the rich brown woods. The balance in the universe restored itself around them as the sirens roaring from the ground quietened and silence crept in.

 

-

 

 

Michael stepped away from his telescope as Ray crumpled into Ryan’s embrace and began to cry into his chest. He may have watched the rest of it unfold, but the final moments of their recollection seemed a little to intimate even for him, someone who had been there for Ray for as long as he could recall.

Michael walked back towards his kitchen and picked up the expensive bottle of whiskey Geoff had sent him for his birthday. He unscrewed the cap and poured himself a glass, wincing only slightly when he swallowed the entire thing. Geoff always had the best taste in whiskeys.

Michael eyed his phone which sat beside the bottle. He wasn’t sure if it was the Dutch-courage alone or his witnessing of Ray and Ryan’s touching moment, but an unknown force in his gut compelled him to pick it up and scroll through his contacts.

 

_Dickie Bitch_

 

Gavin answered straight away.

“Michael?” he breathed. His voice alone brought a new light to Michael’s eyes and his heart clenched behind his ribcage. He was glad he was alone, because the smile on his face was impossible to conceal.

“Hey Gav.” He said. “Long time no see.”

“Bloody tell me about it.” Gavin replied. Michael listened to the shakiness in his voice and poured himself another drink.

“So boi- I was just thinking.” He said, taking another potent sip. “What’d you say if I wanted to get the band back together?”

 

 

 

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this fic :)
> 
> If you enjoyed it, please leave a comment and let me know!
> 
> Thanks.
> 
> Question: Did you like the way in which this was written?

**Author's Note:**

> Next Update.... soooooooon.


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